I Am The Father Of A Teenage Witch
by homeric
Summary: Hermione's dad finally gets his say.


**A/N Everything belongs to J.K Rowling.**

**A little thing in response to all the abused!Hermione fics. It can't be easy living with a teenaged witch. I've looked through the books and various places for the correct names of Hermione's parents but couldn't find any references, so I'm afraid that I made the names up.**

My name is David Granger, and I am the father of the most extraordinary girl you could ever hope to meet. From the moment she was first placed in my arms, a squalling bundle of pink wrinkled skin and screwed up brown eyes, I knew true love for the first time since I first met my wife. And what a daughter, could any parent have been prouder? I listened smugly as my friends told tales of destructive toddlers, sympathised when my patients grumbled about sleepless nights and screaming tantrums. Each night I came home to my wife, somehow more beautiful now that her body carried the stretch marks and extra curves that told the story of the birth of our child, and crept in to the nursery to watch my daughter sleep.

Such a pretty child with her frizz of brown hair and solemn eyes. She liked to walk with us at the weekends, stamping her little wellies in the puddles and squealing with joy when I lifted her onto my shoulders, pretending that she was as high up as the squirrels that scampered in the trees overhead. But from the time she was old enough to understand the words, Hermione's one true love had been books.

It didn't seem to matter what the subject matter was, if it was printed then it was fair game, and if she couldn't understand it then she would hand it over to her mother or I and wait with patient eyes and a furrowed brow until the contents were explained. My wife, dear Abigail, had joked uneasily about Hermione's preoccupation with the written word, but I had laughed indulgently. Our daughter was a bright spark, a book worm - who knew what the future held for her? She still giggled when I tickled her, snuggled up between us when we watched television after dinner and made hopelessly inept cards out of tissue paper and glitter for fathers day.

As the years went on my hair receded, my dental practice flourished, and Hermione grew up. It seemed but a moment from kissing her cheek goodbye as she set off to her first day of school, smart in her new uniform, her chin squared as she tried to be brave, to the girl of ten that sometimes held a shadow of the woman that she was yet to become. She excelled in school - indeed at parents evening I almost blushed at the way her teachers fell over themselves to praise my daughter's conscientiousness and her eagerness to learn. She did not make friends easily, but that was to be expected, and it never seemed to bother her much. She was content enough with her books, and while Abigail worried sometimes - well Hermione was only ten, I reassured her. Give it a few years and we would probably be longing for the return of our studious little girl.

Hermione did not turn into a typical stroppy teenager; she did not paint her bedroom black or start smoking cigarettes stolen from her friends' parents. No, what happened to my little girl was far stranger.

It didn't seem much of an event at the time. Several young boys had been tormenting a cat in the quiet cul-de-sac where we lived, attempting to tie tin cans to its tail (and honestly, tin cans? You'd think they'd have more imagination than playing a prank that must have been old in Charles Dickens' day). Hermione had run out to stop them, but shut away in my study I had no idea what was going on. It was only later when a red faced woman puffed out with outrage knocked on the door accusing Hermione of assault, bullying and goodness knows what else, that I had any idea of what had happened. It turned out that somehow the three boys had ended up with tin cans tied to their trousers and chased away by goodness only knows what. Well as you can imagine, I gave the woman short shrift. The youth cowering behind her was twice the size of my little girl, and since I'd never even known Hermione to even raise her voice, the whole thing sounded utterly ridiculous. I informed the woman that her son had probably been sniffing drugs or snorting glue (he looked the type - he wore a hooded sweatshirt and had two earrings in one ear) and that if she'd be willing to explain how a ten year old girl could overpower three teenaged boys then I'd be quite happy to listen. She huffed and swore before stalking off, but Hermione did not eat much that evening and her laughter seemed forced when I told her what had happened.

The next week she came home with her satchel bulging with books from the library. There was nothing particularly strange about that - she was on first name terms with all the librarians, and was even granted use of the staff restroom , an honour granted to very few, but the subject matter of her books was a surprise. "The Complete guide To Witchcraft," "A History Of Magic In The British Isles", "Wicca and Paganism today." Sitting beside her on the couch, I tousled her unruly hair and looked at her choice of reading material curiously. Hermione was not one for superstition or fairytales - indeed she had informed Abigail solemnly that the Easter Bunny was a pagan symbol of fertility rather than an actual giant rabbit, only last year. She muttered something about a school project, gathered up her books and went to her room before I had a chance to ask anything further. It was a strange couple of days, but they might have passed without anymore comment were it not for the owl.

I like birds, I truly do. Every month five pounds is taken out of my bank account for the RSPB, and I always make sure that the bird feeders in the garden are full. However it is one thing to watch greenfinches while you eat a leisurely breakfast, quite another to find yourself nose to beak with a tawny owl that suddenly appears outside the kitchen window when you are doing the washing up. And not just any owl. This owl, was well.. Annoyed. Nudging the partially opened window, it shuffled into the kitchen, it's talons scrabbling on the steel draining board and held its leg out. There was a folded piece of paper attached to the scaly skin, and not knowing quite what else to do, I pulled it from the bindings. The owl gave a cross sort of hoot before hopping towards the window, sweeping into the night air so silently that it might not have been there at all.

"Dad?" My daughter padded into the kitchen, eyes wide. "Are you alright?"

Well what can you say to that? Looking down, I read the name upon the carefully folded envelope. "Hermione?" passing the letter to her, I gave a wobbly smile. "I think this is for you."

That was six years ago, six years in which the world as I know it seems to have turned upside down. Hermione is still my bright brilliant bookworm, my beloved know-it-all, but she is no longer a child, and to a large extent she is no longer part of the world as I know it. I have seen her world, bought her books from shops in secret places, bought her a wand for goodness sake (the last time I bought her a wand it was at the circus and flashed pink and blue when you pressed a button on it. Apparently that does not suffice for the spells that she is learning.) Not that I am prejudiced you understand - it takes all sorts, as I told Annie my dental nurse when it turned out her son was more AC than DC if you get my meaning. I've met her friend Ron's parents, and very nice they seemed too - a little eccentric perhaps, but who am I to judge? Mr Weasley might have seemed a little excessively keen to examine my watch, but then great uncle George used to collect cabbages. At least Hermione has friends now - I can't remember what it was like to have a conversation that didn't start "Ron did this," or "Harry did that." They seem like nice enough lads from what I've seen of them - although of course I might have to have a bit of a word the next time I see them : it wasn't so long ago that I don't remember what it was like to be a teenage boy after all.

Hermione is happy, and I'm happy that she is happy, but it is not easy having a witch as a daughter. The owls for one thing; half my neighbours think I'm running an illegal rare breed aviary, the other half keep asking what I'm putting on my bird table. Say what you will about the British postal system, at least the postmen don't crash through your window in the dead of night, regurgitate half a mouse onto your pillow and then demand to be fed after they've given you your post. It's not exactly easy when it comes to family gatherings either. When my brother boasts about his son's frankly mediocre GCSE results and enquires after Hermione's progress what am I supposed to say? "Actually Hermione's OWL results were outstanding?" Proud as I am of her, I can't imagine that being met with anything but a blank look and a swift change of subject.

And then there is her… I hesitate to describe it as a cat. The Marmalade Menace or Crookshanks as Hermione calls it, took over the house within moments of entering it. I didn't mind buying her a cat - it was better than an owl at any rate. Cats are cuddly, sweet, they sit on your lap and purr. Above all they are normal. One look at the armful of ginger fur and disdainful golden eyes that Hermione proudly carried into the lounge swiftly disabused me of _that _notion. Crookshanks has all the elegance and grace of a heavy pawed loo brush and the unerring ability to stretch out on the exact bit of the newspaper I was reading. A couple of times I have woken in the night to find the television on and the cat stretched out insolently on the sofa, but I put it down to pressing the timer button on the remote control by mistake. After all it's a cat, cats don't watch television do they?

My Hermione has changed these past couple of years. She never was very good at hiding her feelings, and I know that she is troubled. She told me once that the wizarding world calls non magic folk like Abigail and I muggles. That rather tickled me, and I asked her if they sold T-shirts with that on, so that the next time we sent her off to school people would know not to ask us magic related questions. Her reply was sharp and almost frightened. She told me that will go and stay with the Weasleys before she goes back to school - there is no need to for us to trouble ourselves. She looked at me sadly, my little bookworm, when her trunk was packed and hugged me tight. She has grown, she has changed, but feeling the tickle of her hair, the tight almost frantic crush of her arms around my neck, it as though time has stood still. I don't know what is wrong, I don't what she fears. Her world is not mine, and it is with a heavy sickness that I know that I can no more protect her than keep her here.

On the way to work I watch the teenagers loiter in front of the corner shop, eyes belligerent, illegal cigarettes smoked defiantly, and I envy their parents.

**A few British terms that not everyone might be familiar with.**

Wellies - Wellington boots.

Parents night - a once a year meeting between parents and teachers where the children's progress is discussed.

RSPB - Royal Society for the Protection of Birds.

GCSE - exams taken at 16 by students. The results determine whether the student goes on to take A-levels (advanced level, usually only 3 are taken) and then onto university if the grades are good enough/ the student wants to go.

**Of course if you wanted to give feedback I'd be very grateful - this was kind of an experiment!**


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